It's Quiet Uptown
by RayKay72
Summary: A journey into Alexander Hamilton's mind as Eliza takes his hand. Based on the brilliant song by Lin-Manuel Miranda, and borrowing from Hamilton's few letters to Eliza (his beloved Betsey) that survive.


Silence.

Though I feared little in my stolen life, I feared the silence. The quiet wisp of wind in the eye of a hurricane, luring the foolish from safety. The stilled rattle of my mother's cough as she left this world—left me. The ceasing of the drum beat of my son Phillip's heart as his life slipped away. Eliza.

Silence.

Now I cloak myself in the darkness of quiet to stay the haunting memories, visions of the past that threaten to swamp my every move. I still move—slowly now—the only sound the soles of my shoes hitting the dusty streets of my beloved New York. Instinctively I turn from the bustling markets and courts, the chaos that once fed my every thought. Once the noise harbored me, warded off the unceasing, staccato pounding of Death's pale horse that threatened an ever-lasting silence. Death, my old friend, who could have bestowed upon me glory or frozen in time each charge leveled against me—bastard, orphan, worthless. Either path would lead to an irreversible stillness from which I could not redeem myself.

These days, the quiet provides a vortex, siphoning away the sound of my Phillip's laughter, my daughter Angie in song, my Betsey calling my name to dinner. It shields me from the echoes that could shatter the last remnants of my heart.

Yet even now, as I embrace the soothing absence of all vibrations, there is one sound I pursue. In its wake, I drift through the house, remaining just out of sight, longing to hear her. Catching fragments of conversations with the children, the lilt and cadence are the same—sadder, muted of joy—but the same. A tender tone comforting tears from a scraped knee or broken toy. Those faint murmurs a balm on the scarred flesh of my heart. And yet, even when my shadow brushes against her view…

Silence.

I close my eyes and am drawn to a time when her smile would dim every chandelier in the ballroom. When a look alone from me would steal her breath, and fill those dark eyes with wonder. How long now since her eyes fell upon me? How long now since she stood in the same room? It is quiet that I seek now, yet the impenetrable wall between me and my beloved Betsey screams to the rafters of our home, and shakes the foundation upon which the tatters of my life woefully cling.

Strange. In the war I chased Death almost as fervently as I pursued Miss Elizabeth Schuyler. To have her love, her longing, her grief when I was gone, signified my acceptance into a world always held out of reach.

When did the idea of my darling Betsey become my Eliza—the very beat of my heart? Was it when I first drew her into my arms as I returned from the war? Was it when I first set quill to paper to win her? Or was it the first moment her hand touched mine as I swept her into a dance at that fateful ball where we met?

Was it as simple as a touch?

Drawn to her like a celestial planet orbiting a glowing sun, I seek now the warmth she radiates even in the timidity of her pain. Tenderly in our garden, I cultivate the flowers that hold the scents I remember she adores, the petals reminiscent of her soft skin. Absently, I find my hand sliding over the doorknob of a room she has just left, or even re-plastering a few loosely caged strands she attempted to tame of our son William's wild locks.

In my youth, the General referred to me as relentless. He always said it with a half-smile and a barely hidden dose of pride. Perhaps _desperate_ was a more fitting word from those who did not carry his parental-tempered indulgence. Desperately, I awaited the elegant scrawl of my delightful Betsey throughout the war. When her daily correspondence trickled to a crawl, my heart seized in fear. Was this the day she realized the truth—that I am not worthy of her? Was this the day my sweet enchantress, my darling nut-brown maid, awoke to see me as I am—a penniless, lonely beggar?

Finally, when I was handed those missives drafted from her tender hand, it was as if she reached through the miles to me. Each message ignited a flame under a cold cauldron and banished despair. Each word a message of hope…hope that I would not be abandoned to the silence of a world without love. Each tentative phrase a flower unfurling, filled with her scent and kindness—a garden created just for me.

How the strings of our youth echo in song throughout our lives. Now a different melody awaits me from my love. One without words, without notes. It is one of only silence.

Silen….

What is that sound? What rare bird makes such a quiet tune?

Without thinking, I walk into the next room, drawn to the bird who sings so softly. And there she is.

I freeze, aware suddenly that she has not seen me. Eliza, reaching down to fetch the darning for one of our children. She is the sound. She is… _humming_.

I gasp at the knowledge it is my darling Betsey, a hint of her former joy unconsciously rising to her elegant throat. Unbidden, the wetness of tears trails my cheeks as I achingly commit to memory a song so beautiful that Mozart in all his delirious reverence could not have mustered.

It is then she turns. What a sight I must be! A grown man with a tear-stained face, holding his breath for fear of being seen by his wife. She bestows upon me the gift of her gaze. It is only for a moment, yet this is a moment more than the months since Phillip's death. It is her eyes that capture me, undimmed by age and sorrow. They clench at my heart as they did the day she wore a wedding veil.

The very vision of her facing me creates a panic within my soul. Decades of dogged manners take hold, and my body drops into a proper bow. And here is a ridiculous sight. A man desperately in love with his wife, and bowing before her.

I steel myself for the next moment—the inevitable second she will turn from me, leaving me alone once more. Yet she does not retreat. I, from my prostrate position, see her delicate slippers unmoved for a beat more. Then she turns back to her knitting box, slowly arranging its contents. Unable to draw myself up, I remain immobile before her. Her light blue slippers then step toward me, the smooth satin pausing for an eternal moment before my eyes. With the familiar discrete rustle of her petticoat, she walks out the door.

It is then the breath enters my lungs once again, carrying with it the sweet scent of her floral perfume. Rising carefully, the dizziness of the moment still sends me staggering to the nearest chair. She _looked_ upon me. After all she has suffered from me, she looked upon me. Even in the ocean of grief and loss, I find a glimmer of my old self hidden in the eyes of my Eliza, my Charmer.

I cannot resist the slight pull of my lips into some semblance of a smile as I wipe the tears away. A fire, long dormant, flickers inside my wayward soul. A hint of a flame awakened that long slept in the silence. Perhaps it can be named relentlessness, perhaps desperation, but I shall call it that which Eliza stirs within her Alexander—hope.

As the days pass, I dare not enter her presence again. Yet something is different, a nameless shift in the axis of the Earth upon which we stand. It is a week—no more—before I am sitting with the children when she walks into the room. Instinctively, she halts, appearing ready to pivot and begin a brisk pace out the door.

Instead, she smooths her skirt, clasps her hands, and levels her eyes to John. She nods to his query if it is time for his French lesson. Without a word, he leaves with her, throwing a charged silence into the room as the children exchange curious glances. It is our James who greets the odd scene with the lift of an eyebrow directed to me—a question I cannot answer, at least not yet. Yet the seed of hope planted not seven days hence blossoms.

Perhaps I can be liberated from this servitude of my own making—a slave to the arrogance that exacted an unspeakable toll upon my life, and that of my family. How unfair to my wife that I entrust her once again with embodying my sole salvation? Even now, it is my hubris that leads me to believe if I can find the right words, I can win her again, regain some shadow of myself. Perhaps I cannot win her love—for I was never worthy of such a greatness—but just her presence, her very beloved self, seated next to me.

I have asked for so many things in life that I should not have dared to ask, demanded that which any beggar would never dream. Now I ask God and Fates for one more miracle in my life. I ask them for the nearness of Eliza.

Why have words deserted me?

The daily correspondence flies from my desk, offering unofficial advice on matters of state, of finance, of treaties and laws. Yet my quill finds no relief in this drudgery. No matter how my mind spins and sprawls, the words to win Eliza back to my side remain in the periphery, just outside of my grasp.

I know she will not abide compliments to her ceaseless beauty, her tenderness and gentle manners. In fact, she would hold as folly every word of admiration I wrote to her throughout our separation during the war. Those sentiments breathe with a truth now more than ever, though she would only see them pitch and drown, harpooned by the last words I penned to the public with mention of my wife. Even without that fiasco, all those letters into which I poured my heart came to my darling Betsey as the war raged. And now, so many lifetimes since, they can too easily be dismissed as the musing of youth.

For a time, I set my sites on throwing myself upon her mercy. Laying bare my blame in our misfortunes and tragedies, along with the pain and humiliation she faces. But each stanza of supplication for clemency from this self-made prison rings hollow. I am convinced that Shakespeare and Aristotle combined could not pull such a piteous plea for forgiveness from their very marrows.

To speak of tomorrow is too much, to speak of yesterday burns too deeply with pain.

Where are the words?

As I curl yet another disastrous attempt in my fingers, I hear the front door open, the soft pad of her feet upon the floor. Standing, I find myself drawn to my darling Eliza, and watch her remove her coat to reveal the black dress of mourning. Turning, she pauses when she sees me at my office door. Before she can leave, the words come to me from the ether. They are not my words, they are hers.

My voice does not even sound like my own as I recall the plea she made me when I first returned from the war, broken and shamed. The gift of words she gave me that day illuminate the path of entreaty I take, telling her I am not afraid, I know who I married. And if I could just stay by her side, that would be enough.

Eliza does not speak. She turns instead to lift her gardening apron from the peg near the door. Slipping it over her head wordlessly, she opens the door again.

My heart catches in my throat. _Not enough_ , I hear my mind cry. _You will never be enough_. My fist pulls tighter around the paper covered with my scattered thoughts. My discarded, useless words the only thing anchoring me to the Earth.

It is then my Eliza turns back toward me. She glances at the gardening basket still sitting on the table by the door. Opening the door wide, she walks out, heading for the garden. She does not close the door.

My brain takes a full 10 seconds to register this silent invitation, before I grab the basket and practically sprint out the door.

Words flow now at the pace of raging river, threatening to consume everything upon the shore. I talk and talk with each step she allows me to take beside her. There is little rhyme or reason to my conversation: The state of the vegetables in the garden, the annoying pitch of our neighbor's pooch, the size of pebbles in the road where we walk.

The words are everything and nothing. I make no effort to edit or organize my thoughts. Instead, I let them fly as I jump from topic to topic, and I let Eliza see them as they form, viewing my thoughts as I have never let anyone. For here is my dearest Betsey, the keeper of what is left of my heart. Should she not have all that is malleable in me that I have given to no other?

Each day is a new chance of discovery of all that is Eliza.

Her hair is affixed in a new way. When she is disquieted, she smooths nonexistent wrinkles on her skirt. When she is uncertain she clasps her hands. She does not speak, but I learn much in the quiet. For weeks, we walk and we garden. I talk. And all the while I make note of the tilt of her head when she ponders, and the way she closes her eyes when a gentle breeze caresses her face. I take note of the fact that I may be the luckiest man on God's Earth because I stand next to Eliza.

It is a sunny morning when I head into the garden on my own, aiming to give my attention to a ruffled lilac bush that weathered a hearty rain. Usually I wait for Eliza, but William worried for a small nest he discovered in the bush last week, and I promised him I would save "his" birds, as he calls them. After pulling away the snapped branches and ensuring the nest secure, I brush the dirt from my hands. It is then I realize she is there, unmoving, and watching me.

Though everything inside me aches to turn to her, I remain fixed in place. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her take a hesitant step toward me, and then another. I keep my gaze on a pale lilac flower in front of me, unsure what to make of her movements. I store up this moment in my memory. If she only takes a few steps toward me, it would be enough to last me months. To think I was in her thoughts for a moment, long enough for her to be drawn to me. For her to be...

Small, delicate fingers ease their way into my hand.

I gasp for breath as the sensation of _Eliza's hand in mine_ swamps my senses. Her fingers hold a warmth that radiates to my very soul and my heart races to a beat even Death cannot hope to catch. It is as if all the times in my life I was able to take her hand, to touch her, to hold her, merge into one glorious vision filled with electricity and light.

I close my eyes tightly as I revel in the tiny act of placing my thumb slowly onto the back of her graceful hand. It will take me days—years—to convince myself this is real. That Eliza stands beside me, holding my hand, her hand embracing her husband who could never hope to deserve her glance, let alone her touch. And perhaps someday, if I can prove my love, my devotion, my unmitigated dedication to her, she might even speak…

"It's quiet uptown."

The melody of her voice smashes the icy walls of loneliness around my heart with one shattering quake. The cry catches in my throat as the dam breaks. Tears stream down freely, and I make no effort for them to cease. Eliza, my beloved, speaks to me! How good, how tender stands the divine creature before me? I, who have been so unworthy from the moment of my birth, stands next to his Angel. And beyond the magic of her touch, she deems to give me the song of her voice. I am…

A quiet gasp from her turns my head in alarm. The tears that cascade down my cheeks are matched by Eliza. She wraps her arm around mine. My Angel is in pain. Gently, she rests her lovely chin upon my shoulder.

The darkness of silence snaps its shackles from me. My darling love needs me. No more pity, Alexander.

No more the quivering cowardice,  
powerless victim of my fears.  
Now I'll stand steady to keep my dear Eliza near.  
No more dancing around the stance  
that I'ma unworthy man.  
Eliza needs me to cherish her, and hold her hand.  
For too long, I feared her leaving, already grieving,  
readying myself into believing  
it was only a matter of time.  
Now I stand beside her. Eliza's Alexander  
as much as she is mine.

She takes a staggered breath. I squeeze her arm and gaze into her dark eyes, slammed by the depth of sorrow there. I offer no words, knowing none can reach the pain we share. It will be ours to bear together. Instead, I give Eliza my arm to lead her inside. It is nothing, that arm. Just the arm of a husband to steady his grieving wife. But for us, it is a new beginning.

We turn and walk back to our home.

 _Full disclosure: I've had an intellectual crush on Alexander Hamilton since my 10th grade history class (which can be counted past in decades and not years). Though I have only heard the soundtrack, and seen snips of the musical, I'm grateful to Lin-Manuel Miranda for bringing this brilliant and utterly flawed Founding Father to life. Perhaps it takes a genius to truly help others understand one._

 _You can find Alex's love letters to Eliza during the war through the National Archives online. They are gorgeous._


End file.
